


Spike

by UncleAxel



Category: Fahrenheit 451 - Ray Bradbury, Original Work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:15:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28155951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UncleAxel/pseuds/UncleAxel
Summary: Not, strictly speaking, a F451 fanfic, but I thought it might fit in here.I ought to add, for the record, that I'm no petrolhead, a keen cyclist rather - but I still hope this fantasy doesn't become a reality!For more, read on....
Kudos: 2





	Spike

# SPIKE

A short story about a rebel, set some time in the future

“ _...if motor vehicles were fitted with a spike in the centre of the steering wheel which pointed towards the driver's chest, the driver would drive slower in the knowledge that should they hit something they'd be the first to get hurt.”_

_Dr. Mayer Hillman - Senior Fellow Emeritus, Policy Studies Institute_

Callum shuddered. He shook his head from side to side vigorously, screwed up his face, balled his right fist in each eye, then he gripped the wheel even tighter. Scary time to be dozing off, even with the road ahead seemingly clear with no obvious hiding places. You never wanted to be at the wheel of the car unless you were absolutely sure you would be staying awake. That on top of all the other stuff a driver had to worry about...

Once again he focused on the yellow plastic circle in the centre of the steering column. He couldn’t help it. His eyes had to keep straying to that disc. He knew all the authorities, all the motoring organisations, kept on warning you—don’t look at the disc! It won’t make it any easier. Try to ignore it and watch the road..... Callum was sure millions of other drivers had exactly the same problem, though no-one ever admitted to it. It was just a thin plastic circle, about twice the size of a five-dollar piece, totally opaque, giving no clue as to what was behind it.

But we all know what’s behind it, Callum mused. The ‘Mayer Spike’—or just ‘Spike’ (with a capital S) for short . No-one was quite sure how it got that name. Something to do with a radical early-twenty-first-century transport guru, some said. Or was it twentieth? Anyway, it didn’t matter to whoever it was, now: he must have been dead for decades. And the Spike had been in place in all the cars now for five years. Every vehicle had to have one. You had to get an ‘official’ motoring organisation to fit it—the AA or the NAC—before you could drive the car away. And you couldn’t take it out, of course, you’d need a special key and there were all sorts of booby-traps and interlocks. And any significant shock to the car—any sudden deceleration—would set it off: it would come straight out through the disc... The disc was wafer-thin, it would puncture in an instant ... and the spring behind the Spike—they told you it was immensely strong...

Callum thought again about Holt. Holt from the desk across the room from his; Holt who did the electronics. Holt was OK, that was the first thing to say, to reassure himself. Holt was sitting up in bed: they’d let him out of Critical Care at the King Andrew two days ago. He was quite chirpy when they called round last night, Callum and the other lads. Holt was having a good laugh, though he still found talking a bit of an effort. He’d been off life support for a week now: they’d managed to re-inflate his right lung. It was a miracle, that: the Spike only got his lung, not his heart. Probably because he swerved to his right as he braked, and his seat belt was off. Most people didn’t wear the belts these days, the authorities didn’t encourage it and anyway it wouldn’t save you from the Spike.

Callum thought about what happened to Holt. Just some kids fooling about. That was all. They’d rolled an old car tyre out into the road. Could happen to anyone. Common enough trick. And the kids didn’t care—they knew the motorists were scared stiff, they’d never be able to give chase. And the kids—no matter how dreadfully they behaved—they were inviolate. The law couldn’t do a thing about them.

Almost as bad as the cyclists. The cyclists were the worst. Since they repealed the Helmet Act, the cyclists were savouring their new-found freedom. They knew how to play the car drivers, they did. Easy to taunt someone when he’s under a death threat... Ride in circles round you, some of them did. Literally. Especially the kid cyclists. Kids again!

Callum focused on the road again. His car seemed to be slowing down. He glanced at the speedo—under thirty-five. Careful! He had to get his speed up. Those yellow cameras—nearly every lamp-post, nearly every bridge, had one. He thought desperately for a moment trying to remember what the limit was on this stretch. Thirty, he decided. Probably thirty kilometres. At least those cameras didn’t Spike you, they just sent you a ticket. The police kept on upping the limits in some places; they wanted to keep the traffic moving. The trouble was, people were too afraid of the Spike, they were just crawling along.

Callum remembered what he’d seen on the internet. He’d typed in “Speed Camera” and “History” the other day (he’d also tried “Mayer” and “Spike” but he couldn’t find anything useful; there were too many matches). But “Speed Camera” had come up with a story that, a long time ago, those cameras were set to an _upper_ limit. So they’d ticket you if you were going _faster_ than the limit. Strange!

Here were the gates. Easy now. Take a few deep breaths before trying to park. People didn’t usually come unstuck when parking: they were going too slowly for that. But there were always bumps and scrapes—happening all the time—and they were expensive. Just ease gently into the space—leave plenty of room each side. Aha! Engine off. Relax. No more worries until this evening. At least, no more of _those_ worries.

* * *

Jan looked up as Callum strode in. Jan was always in early—but then—she cycled. Jan always said “good morning” cheerfully enough. Jan with her short brown hair and her slim, slightly impish looks. Callum tried his best to ‘like’ Jan—after all she was one of the ‘good’ cyclists. The ones who’d let you pass, kept to a straight path, didn’t try to fool you. But how can you ‘like’ a cyclist—after all, wasn’t it the cyclists, pedestrians, horse riders, all that lot, who’d set all this up in the first place?

Callum walked straight to his desk, not even looking at Jan, not even answer Jan’s “Good morning.”

“In your ‘I don’t give a damn’ mood again, are we, Cal? Seems like you’re always in that same mood. Anyway, I’ve got you some coffee.”

“Thanks,” muttered Callum. “Er—thanks. You’re very—you’re really awfully—”

“No, you don’t have to thank me,” retorted Jan. “You don’t have to grovel before me. I’m not a god. I’m not an angel. I’m just another person. And I know what you’re thinking. The same as you’re brooding on, every day. Is it about the car again?”

Callum gave a slight nod. Then he changed his mind and shook his head.

“OK. So it’s about me cycling.” It wasn’t had for Jan to guess. “I’m just someone who uses a different mode of transport. Not a ‘superior’ form of transport. Just different, that’s all. The way you travel—that’s perfectly OK with me. I know you’ve got twenty kilometres to come. I know you don’t have the choice. I know how difficult your journey is. I can accept you as you are. Why can’t you accept me?”

“I keep on trying to. I really do, Jan. It’s not something personal. Really not. But when I see someone who does—what you do—and think of all the other ones...”

“That’s what you say every day. I know all about it. I’m tired of all this. You think you’re a good driver. Well—everyone does: but in your case I believe you. You can cope with the few idiots—and they are only a few. A tiny minority. Idiots. You’ve had encounters before. You’ve told me about them. And you can deal with them. You won’t get the Spike. Not like Holt.”

“Have you been in to see Holt? I didn’t see you last night...”

“Of course I have, Cal. And he’s got the right attitude. He knows he made a mistake. He wasn’t paying attention and he knows it. He knows he had his let-off. It doesn’t bother him. He’s looking forward to coming out. Back behind the wheel again. And he won’t make the same mistake.”

“But what about—what about—J—Jess—”

Jess. Jess from the canteen. Two years ago. She hadn’t been so lucky. Right through the left ventricle. Dead within two hours, so they said. But it was probably sooner than that. Otherwise they’d have saved her. They had played it down a bit. They knew about morale.

Jan shrugged. “Jess? What else is there to say about poor Jess? An accident. Could’ve happened any time. And she _hit_ a pedestrian, remember? Put him in hospital, too. And remember, she was sixty-seven. She was thinking about retiring, anyway. Should’ve done that already. Then she’d have stopped driving. She’d still be alive...”

“You’re callous.”

“I’m just trying to talk sense into you. Forget Jess. OK, don’t forget Jess as a person, she was a lovely person. But forget her as a driver. She got it wrong. You wouldn’t have. Just believe in yourself...”

“I’m trying. I’m really trying. If only I could get that thing out... in my car…”

“You know you can’t.”

“You must be able to,” pleaded Callum. “There’s something there, I’m sure of it. You know, I tried ‘Remove Spike’ on the internet last week. I got this message _‘this search has been blocked in accordance with Government Directive 2241a...’_. Only for ‘Remove Spike’. Not for ‘Spike’ alone. They wouldn’t have done that, now, would they? Not if there wasn’t something there...”

“You’re really asking for a disciplinary, aren’t you, Cal,” snapped Jan. “Searching for illegal Dark Web sites, is it? The Spike’s there for the common good. Most of the others accept that. Why can’t you?”

But Callum couldn’t. Even as he ploughed through his day’s work, his mind kept drifting to that message. He didn’t dare try the search again. Jan was right, they were watching your internet access. And if you got to a criminal site, a subversive site, it was serious.

There _must_ be another way. Some way he could remove that Spike without anyone knowing. There must be another source of information. One that wasn’t watched. Someone in the pub had once said, why don’t you just let the brake off, let the car run down the hill into a wall. Then, when the Spike’s tripped, you saw it off, and away you are... But Callum knew that was no good. The cameras had some sort of sensor: they could tell if a car was passing with the Spike already tripped... they’d set off an alert.

How _long_ was the Spike? No-one really knew. The AA, the NAC, their guys never talked about it. And you weren’t allowed to watch as they were fitting one, or re-setting one. The ambulance men, the doctors, all sworn to secrecy. All Callum knew, was that it _could_ be as long as the steering column. Nearly a metre. Maybe it was tailored to the driver’s girth. A _metre_ of hardened steel, honed dagger-sharp at one end! Surely it couldn’t be that long! Or could it?

There was something else nagging him. Some other memory. Something about cars in the late twentieth, early twenty-first century. They had something else there. Where the Spike was. Something that was there to _save_ your life, not _end_ it. Callum had read something, somewhere. Was it in a school book? No: it was an old local newspaper cutting. Callum had come across it by lucky chance: stuffed into the back of an old picture that he was re-framing. Usually possession of old newspapers was strictly forbidden. Callum had remembered most of the words he had read, before he had quickly thrown the offending piece of paper into the incinerator:

“… _Mr Johnson emerged from the accident quite unhurt, thanks to the - - - - - - which inflated as his car hit the wall, saving his life....”_

Evidently no Spike involved in that accident. So long ago... What was that forgotten missing word ? _“Soft-buffer”_? _“Crash-cushion”_? No: Callum spoke through the sentence two or three times: his memory was beginning to come back. _“Air-bag”_ —or possibly _“Airbag”_ —that was it! Was this the keyword Callum ought to search for? Something the DoT hadn’t thought of blocking?

He did a search for the word “Airbag”. _“This search has been blocked in accordance with Government Directive 2241a...”_ Oh well, it was worth a try...

* * *

Don came towards Callum’s desk. Wake up and concentrate now. There’s work to be done. I know my mind’s elsewhere: I’ve just got to forget that disc—that Spike. They’re not in front of me now. I’m in a safe place.

“How did you get on with that spec., Cal?” asked Don, his lanky figure towering over Callum. “For the J3—you know, you were starting on the tailplane?”

“Still working on it.” Callum sighed, as Don walked off. He brought up the _Airframe Modelling_ software and downloaded the J3 tailplane once more. He knew that once he got into it, all the turbulence calculations, he would be in his element. He was the best in the department on turbulence, he knew that. And Don knew it too: he wouldn’t push Callum too hard, he knew how to get the best from him. Don, and all the others, knew Callum’s propensity to brood and mope for long periods, but they knew that they got good work out of him, between these moods. And Don had the same problem after all. Didn’t he, too, moan about driving all the time, how he hated every minute of it? And Don was seventy, he’d been driving a long time, now, before and after ...

The word ‘air’. Half of this mystery word ‘airbag’. Every moment of his working life, he was working on it. ‘Air’ was in all his documents, all his specifications. After all, you can’t very well be in aircraft design without thinking about ‘air’ a lot of the time! But just now, as Callum sighed and saved a particularly obstinate calculation on stalling airspeeds, ‘air’ in the sense of aerodynamics, air-flow round an aircraft, wasn’t what he was really thinking about. There was something else about ‘air’. After all, don’t we have air around us all the time? We breathe, for heaven’s sake! And we pump up tyres, don’t we? Even the cyclists have to do that...

What did Jan do? She must be on the same project, but she never talked about it. When she came to chat, it was always about personal things, social matters. She always minimised her screen, discreetly, when you approached: it was Company policy after all. Funny to have someone at a desk a few yards from your own, and you never see what they’re working on...

Lunch time. As usual, Callum first realised this by noticing Jan walk past, bag slung over her shoulders. Going for her usual spin, he supposed. Time to stretch his legs, too. And be a pedestrian, just for a little while! Ecstatic! Even the short walk along the road to the pub—that was the best moment of his day. Callum knew he wasn’t the type to behave idiotically. Run out into the road and all that stuff! Jan was right, he _was_ sensible about these things. And the pavements were so safe.... It was lovely being on them.

As usual, Don and the others were at the bar. Callum was glad that Jan never came to the pub. He liked talking to Don, to Holt (before Holt ended up in hospital, of course), to Ashley and all the other guys. They were all _drivers_ (Callum emphasised the word unconsciously). And none of them liked to have a cyclist around. Obviously. You had to have some place to talk freely.

“Hey, Cal,” said Ashley. “I was just telling these others, had them police around this morning. About Holt. That’s why I was late. You know I was right behind him and I saw it happen. Well, not _right_ behind, perhaps! I know you’ll want to know about this, he’s your best mate ain’t he? It’s just that I saw one of them lads run off. Stupid gits. So I told the cops that day, and it seems they’ve pulled someone in. They want me to come and identify him. Not that it’ll do any good of course, you know they’ll get let off. Fancy, mucking about with that old tyre. Seems they had the inner tube out of it too, they’d been trying to inflate it. I didn’t think there _were_ car tyres with inner tubes, not any more. How could they be any damn use?”

Callum didn’t answer. He was staring into his glass. Something else was nagging at his mind, some sort of word-association thing. Was it something Ashley had just said? The word ‘inflate’? Anyway, Callum just grunted as his plate of pasta was passed over and he shuffled over to the table.

Ashley said nothing, but he looked somewhat hurt at Cal’s silence. Normally they’d be chatting right through the lunch break.

As they all strolled back to work after lunch, Jan swept past, waving. She glanced over her shoulder and gave a careful right hand-signal as she turned into the car park. Handbag still on her shoulders, but two well-filled supermarket bags slung across her handlebars as well. Jan hadn’t gone for a spin, she’d been doing her shopping instead.

Don came quietly to Callum’s side. “Look, Cal, I know you’re not having an easy time. Ash, he’s brooding about Holt as well. In fact, he’s feeling as bad about this thing as you are. He _wants_ to talk about it. Look, Holt’s alive, isn’t he? He’s a lot better. Isn’t that what matters? You’ve done a good piece of work this morning. On the tailplane. I’ve already had a look at it. Just don’t be so rude to Ashley. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“It’s not that. No, something Ash said, set me wondering about something. An idea I’ve been working on. Making my head spin, sort of.”

“Is it about the project? Is it about work?”

“No—not really.”

“Well, you can take it home and think about it there. Not here. You’re here to work on the J3—not on your own private projects.”

* * *

Callum reached his desk and sat down. After a minute Jan came in, still carrying her shopping bags, and dumped them on her desk. The bags gave out a sort of ‘sigh’ as they settled.

This sound alerted Callum: made him sit bolt upright. Was it something about that ‘airbag’ nagging at him? Without pausing any longer to think, he walked round to Jan’s desk and laid a hand on one of the bags.

Jan was astounded at this intrusion. “Do you always take an interest in a girl’s shopping?” she snapped, in some annoyance. “So what’s this all about, Cal? And, before you ask, no I haven’t been buying slinky underwear if that’s what turns you on... Just groceries. You’ve never behaved like this before, Cal. I’m surprised at you.”

Without a word Callum gathered all of the top of the bag in his hand and squeezed it into a narrow neck. Then he pushed the ‘neck’ down. There was a hiss as the trapped air was forced out of the bag.

“What the hell are you up to, Cal? Stop playing and leave my shopping alone, will you?”

Cal ignored her. He lifted the bag and emptied all its contents out on the desk.” Jan stood up and shouted furiously, but he carried on determinedly. Grasping the top of the bag into a neck again, he blew into it until it was inflated like a pillow. Then, still holding the neck tight, he laid it on the desk and thumped it with his other hand, balled into a fist, as hard as he could.

The bag burst with a loud bang. People from other parts of the office were running towards them.

Still Callum ignored Jan. He muttered to himself “not strong enough—perhaps the other one?—different supermarket” under his breath. Before Jan could stop him, he’d grabbed and emptied the other bag, then he inflated it, laid it on the desk, and punched it, as before. This time the bag did not burst.

“You’re crazy, Cal! Out of your mind! I’m calling Security.” And Jan picked up her phone.

Cal didn’t try to stop her. He said “please bear with me. Watch this.” And, with the partially-inflated bag still on the desk, he butted his head down hard onto it, chin first. So hard, that if the bag hadn’t been there, he’d almost certainly have fractured his jaw – or even his skull.

But the bag softened the impact. His chin didn’t make contact with the hard top of the desk.

Callum was dazed, and somewhat giddy, but triumphant. The spectators were dumbstruck at his odd behaviour.

But Callum was speaking now, almost gabbling: “Imagine that’s the windscreen of your car. Or the fascia. Or the steering column. Something hard, like this desk. You crash into something: violently decelerating. Even if the Spike weren’t there, your head would bash against a hard surface. You wouldn’t stand much chance.

“But if there’s an air-filled cushion in the way, _you could survive_. Think about it.”

“You’re nuts, Cal,” put in someone. “What about the Spike. It’d puncture your shopping bag like it was a soap-bubble. Useless...”

“Yes—but if the Spike weren’t there—if it had been done away with...”

“Not a chance, Cal. You know perfectly well that the Spike is there to _save_ lives. Best thing ever invented...”

“Yes—by killing the driver...”

By this time a Security officer had turned up. She looked at Jan, who had summoned her; then at the mess on her desk. “Is there something you want to report?”

“No, not this time,” replied Jan. “Just a bit of fooling around, that’s all. I’m sure the person who did it will apologise...”

When the Security woman had left, Callum was contrite. “Jan, I’m awfully sorry—about how I behaved. I just got carried away—obsessed even. I promise it won’t happen again. Thanks awfully for not reporting me—I’m in enough trouble as it is.” For he’d noticed Don amongst the ‘spectators’. No doubt he’d be getting a terse E-mail from Don soon enough. Another worry.

“No thanks needed, Cal. I didn’t say anything because most of the time you’re a real decent guy.” Callum blushed. “When you’re not having one of your mad ideas, that is. But—have you got a spare shopping bag I can have?” She inclined her head towards the mess covering her desk.

Callum immediately marched out to the car park, unlocked his car, and grabbed a couple of clean, sturdy shopping bags which he always kept in the boot. When he got back to Jan he said “Here you are. You can keep them. Sorry again for the trouble I’ve caused.”

“Not at all. To be perfectly frank, I think you’re on to something. Will you keep me in the know, if you find out any more?”

Callum didn’t know what to say to that—but he was secretly delighted. A most unexpected change of attitude from Jan. He must have hit the right note somewhere, despite his appalling behaviour. And Jan certainly was a very pretty young woman. Should he play it up a bit?

“Are you coming to the King Andrew, this evening, to see Holt?” he said.

“No, I don’t think so—I’m rather busy tonight,” replied Jan.

With a sigh, Callum put these thoughts out of his mind and went back to his work.

Going-home time came. Wearily, Callum saved his day’s work and stood up. He knew he’d have to face up to the journey home now. Home first, a bite to eat, then hospital, to see Holt, then home again. Two extra car journeys to try his nerves. Roads rarely had heavy traffic, these days (he had read that it wasn’t always like this!), but it was still a nightmare. Evenings were worse than mornings: wasn’t it in the evening that Holt caught it? All those schoolkids romping around after school…

Callum was sweating as he slowed to a stop outside his flat. He was always sweating after driving. Nothing had happened, of course. He reflected that he _did_ know what he was about, when driving home. He could see the danger signs, the parked cars that the kids could hide behind, the bushes, the fences. He could react smoothly, just like all the other ‘careful’ drivers. But he was sweating, all the same. Ah well, a quick shower and a bite out of a salad sandwich, then he’d better move to get to the hospital.

* * *

Ashley was already there in the ward, and Jan too. Yes, Jan was there, sitting by the bed, chatting to Holt. Holt looked a bit worse, as it happened. The nurse had said he was very tired: the doctor had ordered him to lie back and not to talk. But he’d be all right; there wasn’t anything to worry about. Despite his obvious fatigue, Holt was grinning.

This was a good opportunity to make it up to Ashley. “Sorry about cutting you out at lunchtime, Ash. Things on my mind. Sort of, preoccupied...”

“That’s fine, no problem,” replied Ashley, who was of course fully aware of Callum’s occasional ‘moods’.

Meanwhile Jan had cut in. “Oh, Cal, I’m glad you’re here. Can I beg a lift home off you? Ashley’s already offered, but it’s right out of his way: he lives in the opposite direction from me. But I’m almost on your way home, aren’t I?”

“I’d be delighted to,” replied Callum, trying not to make it sound as if he was too eager. He could now guess what Holt was grinning about. “Problem?”

“Yes, it’s them blasted punctures. Two punctures, in fact, _both_ tyres. Ran over broken glass, just as I was arriving at the hospital. I’ve got patches, but only one cartridge....”

“Cartridge?”

“Yes, one of these.” She pulled a small dull-metal cylinder out of her handbag. “Haven’t you seen one? Contains compressed gas: CO2. I use it to inflate a tyre. But each cartridge only has enough gas for one tyre, and I’ve got two that need doing.”

“I thought you people used a pump,” put in Ashley.

“Oh, I gave up using pumps ages ago. When I’m away from home, that is. Far too much effort! And they’re always breaking, when you need them the most. The gas cartridge is much more convenient when you’re on the road. But I ought to have been carrying two.”

Callum’s mind was drifting away from the conversation: he let the other three chat on: luckily they didn’t seem to notice that once again he had fallen silent. Suddenly another piece of the puzzle was becoming clear to him.

If this ‘air-bag’ was put in front of the driver, fully inflated all the time he or she was driving, yes it would protect them from a crash, but it would be awkward, both to see ahead, and to operate the car’s controls, around it.

But if the bag only inflated, instantly, once a rapid deceleration was detected (presumably by a mechanism similar to what activated the Spike)...

That little metal cylinder might be the solution. Presumably there was some mechanism for opening it to release the gas into the tyre—or the airbag. But maybe it wouldn’t be fast enough. Ah well, another branch of research to investigate...

Then it would be a case of firming up his ideas, getting them written down, and putting them out to friends—friends he could trust, that was. And hoping it would lead to a campaign. A campaign to give the motorist a chance, for a change: to offer him some protection, not a death-threat. Of course it would be dangerous to speak out against Government policy, but he felt he had to try...

Callum pondered this for a long time, oblivious to the chat going on around him. At last he shook himself, paid attention to the others, and realised that the time for visiting was almost over, and the others were preparing to leave.

“So, you’ll be taking me?” said Jan. “I think my bike will fit in the back of your car.”

“Should do, if you take the wheels off.”

Night had fallen as they walked over to where Jan had locked her bike, Callum thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, some movement close to his car. As if a dark shape were moving underneath it. But when he looked around, and his eyes got accustomed to the dark, he could see nothing out-of-the-ordinary. Had someone been close to his car? He shrugged it off.

There was no trouble fitting Jan’s bicycle into the boot, once they’d taken off the front wheel. As Jan eased herself into the front passenger seat, Callum couldn’t help glancing at her. She had changed from her work clothes before coming out to the hospital. Her legs were certainly very shapely under her short grey skirt. Callum couldn’t help his pulse quickening, especially when she crossed her legs and turned to face him, smiling.

Enough of that! Callum knew he mustn’t be distracted, not when driving. Concentrate on starting the car, and pull slowly out of the hospital car park.

He felt there was something wrong with the steering. It seemed a bit heavier, a bit harder to turn the wheel, than it usually was. But he got the car out onto the road without mishap.

And he never noticed the small pool of glistening liquid that had formed under where his car had been parked...

It was only about four kilometres to Jan’s flat. No wonder she preferred cycling! He parked at the roadside, with some difficulty owing to his faulty steering, and lifted Jan’s bike out of the boot, re-attached the wheel, and wheeled it to her front door.

It was now or never! Callum plucked up the courage. “I say, Jan, you wouldn’t care to come and have dinner with me some time? Tomorrow, even?”

“Oh, that’s awfully sweet of you, Cal. But I’m sorry, I can’t do tomorrow, I’m meeting up with my boyfriend. Another time, perhaps?”

Boyfriend? That put a damper on it! First time he’d ever heard of a boyfriend. Ah well—hopes dashed—he’d have to get over it. As he turned away, disconsolately, Jan stopped him, came up close to him and planted a kiss on his cheek. She _did_ care about him: just not that way...

As Callum walked round his car to get in, this time he _did_ briefly notice the small pool of glistening liquid that was seeping out from under the front of the car. Ah well—he thought, that must be what was affecting the steering. He’d have to call in at the garage as soon as he got a chance. He put this thought out of his mind almost at once.

Eager to get his new ideas written down as soon as maybe, he started the engine, released the brake and roared the accelerator, wrenching the steering wheel hard to the left as he did so, to get out of the parking space.

But the steering wheel would barely budge. It seemed to have jammed up altogether.

I can still clear the car parked in front, thought Callum, frozen for a second. But could he? He didn’t have the presence of mind to take his foot off the pedal; to take any corrective action...

There was a sickening crunch of metal upon metal, which brought his car to a sudden standstill. For a fraction of a second he thought he could hear a tearing sound, as of rending plastic—yellow plastic—and then, there was the Spike, all thirty-five centimetres of gleaming metal of it, thrusting its way across the narrow space between the steering wheel and his chest...

Callum barely felt any pain as the Spike neatly inserted itself between his third and fourth ribs, just to the left of the breastbone. But it felt as if he’d been violently punched in the chest, and he was winded and found he couldn’t breathe. Dimly, seeming to come from a long way off, he could hear what sounded like Jan’s screams—but rapidly getting fainter.

Callum’s final thought, as he sank into oblivion, was that he wasn’t going to come out of this as lucky as Holt....

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's note**
> 
> I wrote the first version of this story over 15 years ago, though it's been significantly amended. I first got inspiration from [this article](https://www.theguardian.com/theguardian/2002/nov/02/weekend7.weekend2) in the _Guardian_ \- although Mayer doesn't mention his infamous 'Spike' there, [see here](http://www.bluedome.co.uk/MoutainBiking/bikestuff/helmets.html) for the quote.
> 
> We are set in a future dystopian Britain with some changes, besides the titular Spike, from the present: we seem to have adopted the dollar as our currency (in the original version it was the euro); we drive on the right; I've wreaked havoc with the British Royal succession, and 'speed cameras' seem to have reversed their function (rather like Bradbury's 'firemen'). And as for the ill-fated rebel 'Callum', I had Guy Montag somewhat in mind.
> 
> Regarding Callum's glimpse of someone apparently tampering with his car, most people (birdwatchers and stargazers especially) will know that one's visual acuity, detection of movement especially, is better at the periphery of one's field of vision.
> 
> The defect in Callum's car actually did happen once in my car, many years ago: it dumped all the steering servo fluid in the road without warning. Not sabotage, just a mechanical failure. I did, not without some difficulty, manage to drive the car as far as the nearest garage, luckily without hitting anything!


End file.
